#SAP Terminal Lock

[arunkumar011]

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[mcrdvcks]

mutant!reader x bucky is peak but what if… winter soldier!reader x logan 👀👀👀

very interesting concept, anon!! i hope this drabble satisfies you <3

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: reader is a winter soldier, mention of vibranium arm, brainwashing

You track him through the piney dark by scent alone—gunmetal, pine sap, and something feral that drags at the old conditioning in your skull. Terminate. The order hisses beneath the static in your head as you ghost between trees, silver arm glinting in moon-slashed flashes.

Then he speaks, rough voice rolling across the clearing long before you’re close enough to strike. “Hydra still windin’ you up like a toy, darlin’?”

You freeze. No one’s ever smelled you coming—much less called you darlin’.

Logan steps from the shadows, cigar ember flaring. His jacket’s half-zipped, chest rising slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. Claws stay sheathed, but the threat hums around him like heat off asphalt.

Your finger twitches on the trigger. “Параметры миссии. Mission parameters—” The words rasp out in Russian before you can stop them.

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Eliminate the Wolverine.’ Heard that tune before.” He tips his head, eyes catching starlight. “But what do you want?”

Want. The concept tilts the ground. Hydra didn’t write that subroutine.

Static spikes; memories stutter—red rooms, cryo coffins, loss counted in centuries. You lurch forward, metal fist swinging. He meets you, adamantium against vibranium, the clang echoing like gunfire. Sparks fizzle.

“Got more where that came from,” he growls, hooking your wrist, but there’s no triumph in his grip—only grim understanding. “I know what it’s like. Cage in your skull, someone else holdin’ the key.” You slam him into a tree; bark explodes. He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps talking, voice a low gravel road you can’t stop following. “Let me break the lock for you.”

Your breathing ragged, heartbeat a runaway drum. The kill code crowds your vision; Logan’s scent cuts through—woodsmoke, rain-soaked earth—alive. Something you haven’t felt in decades.

His palm—warm, human—settles over the seam where flesh meets metal on your shoulder. “You’re more than what they carved outta you.”

A tremor runs the length of the arm. Trigger words fire and misfire. The muzzle of your pistol dips. For the first time you can remember, you choose not to pull it back up.

Night wind sighs through the pines. Logan’s gaze never leaves yours. “That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb brushing bone just above the metal plate. “Stay with me.”

The order in your head goes silent.

You exhale, tasting freedom like fresh snow, and let the gun fall into the moss between you. Logan’s claws retract with a whisper. He catches you when your knees finally give, holding you like something precious—not weapon, not mission.

Just you.

[ampheenix]

Marina: an Epilogue

F&H MARINA X LEVI FIC, TAGS: romantic fluff, angst, flashbacks, oneshot

SUMMARY:

“Marina left Prehevil, her ties to it severed by the festival. She would settle down in Valland, in the red lights district of the capital. She would find kindred spirits there. She had a good life, using her occult skills for a living. Though a certain person was always following her…”

Or, what happened to Marina after winning the Terminal festival… along with a glimpse into her memories, and what happened along the way.

Marina had a sneaking feeling her hair had been paler as of late. Her curly locks seemed less silky and smooth, more… subdued, and the bags under her eyes had been growing darker too. 

Every time she came across her reflection in the mirror, it felt like being doused in cold water. No matter how much she powdered her face, no matter how much lipstick she slathered on, she still seemed pale, ghostly and shrouded in a sense of misery.

It wasn’t a good feeling. She’d always been one to take care in her appearance (it started with fear of others realizing her secret, and then she’d soon started finding enjoyment in the process), but as she gazed into the mirror… the fear she could see in her eyes, shaky and brittle… she didn’t like it at all.

In the very least, it wasn’t exactly a shock… after the scarring events of the Termina festival, Marina wouldn’t have been surprised if her hair turned white.

Her hands still started to tremble every time she thought back to just a few weeks ago- sweaty fingers in a white-knuckled grip on the trigger of a trench gun as she would shoot, and shoot, and shoot again with a desperate sense of knowing you’re just an inch from death, clothes drenched in filth that made Marina want to peel off her skin and take it to the laundry-

Marina stopped, nails digging into her fists hard enough to draw blood. She… she a handful of good memories from the festival at least, so it wasn’t all shit (though 99% of it was horrors beyond comprehension).

After all, it was Levi who had taught her how to shoot in the first place, how to defend herself with something aside from a kitchen knife and sanity-sapping spells. A wan smile made its way onto Marina’s face at the bittersweet memories…

At the beginning of the festival, all she’d known about the Eastern Union ex-soldier was that he had hurriedly made his way off the train, in a rather suspicious manner according to Karin (but the journalist had seemed rather biased, at the time).

It was honestly a surprise to find out that they were both the same age, when they met again in the basement of Restaurant Bílý Vůl. Marina was hesitant to approach at first, seeing a young, dishevelled boy in overalls curled up in a ball, and despite all this was rather attractive- even when shaking from withdrawal symptoms.

Marina was questioning her taste within that moment, yet she couldn’t help but extend a hand. And not because she thought him cute, alright- she genuinely wanted to help him out.

Levi… he carried himself with an air of constant paranoia, the deep bruises under his eyes and black marks on his arms a dead-giveaway to his chosen poison. So, when she offered heroin, a momentary ease to his suffering, they became tentative friends.

Levi was rather quiet. All he did at first was constantly scan the area with his gun at the ready, and occasionally glance at her when he thought she wasn’t looking- letting out a small sigh every now and then.

He followed her instructions instantly during battle, with unblinking faith in Marina’s judgment- and with their combined strength, they won every fight they came across.

The disturbing sights of Prehevil’s residents scarred both their minds, and neither of them judged when one found themselves nauseous and losing their lunch after a particularly disgusting foe…. After encounters with things like the fecal hound it was often commonplace.

And if Marina passed him a blue vial and some herbs after a battle, and their fingers touched briefly for a moment, who could blame her for hiding a smile at the pink in his cheeks?

By the end of the first day, when they settled down to rest in the bookshop, Marina couldn’t help but ask about the interaction… and yes, alright, maybe she said it in a rather teasing manner. All-mer forbid a girl flirt in these trying times.

And gods, it was worth it. Marina couldn’t help but let a laugh bubble up at how red Levi’s face turned, but it wasn’t a mean laugh or anything- and Levi could tell, as he buried his face in his hands. He had apologized, stumbling over his words, and she just smiled, shuffling closer…

And then, before she could think about it too much, Marina kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered there for a moment before she drew back, seeing Levi gazing at her complete and utter shock in his eyes, flustered beyond belief.

It was… it was a really nice moment, amidst all the death and gore. Those moments tended to be few and far between, and this had been the sweetest yet.

The next day, Daan had joined them, and he was more blunt and dry in his teasing than was Marina’s style but it was nonetheless effective.

That second night, he had taken a long, slow drag of his cigarette with a small smile, before calling out the stolen glances they were sending eachother- which Marina would vehemently deny (like a lying liar who lies), and Levi would nod along with her with crossed arms.

And the third day… everything went to shit, and Marina found herself at the tower, alone. Her memories are a hazy, fucked up blur from that point onwards.

And all that…

That was in the past now. Marina’s soft smile slowly faded, as she rested her hands on the sink in front of her. After everything that had happened, in the festival…

Gods.

Her grip tightens on the sink.

She had never thought she would win. The first few days after it all ended were spent in a daze, body on autopilot whilst her mind was in overdrive, staggering off that wretched FUCKING train that had brought so much blood and misery.

Winning had never been her intention, she wasn’t the type of person to sell out everyone else and murder them just so she could go free. That was something her father would probably have no qualms doing, but not her.

And all the days after staggering off the train at a random stop in Valland were filled with the sickening weight of guilt and grief, for the friends she hadn’t saved. Marina knew it wasn’t her fault, but… their lost souls still weighed on her.

Marina stared at her reflection in the mirror as she ran a shaky hand through her hair, greasy from neglect.

Tried to pretend she was a normal girl, living a normal life in the red lights district of Valland, who had never seen a town of people scorched by the light of an old god. Tried to pretend that she was just your average occultist who had only the right sorts of secrets, the scandalous ones that make your friends giggle and go “ooh,” and “aah.”

Marina held her piercing gaze on the eyes of the girl in the mirror, a girl who looked tired beyond belief, like she hadn’t truly rested in a long while. And Marina let out a long sigh, like the ones Daan used to do whenever she and Levi did something particularly stupid.

And Marina took a step back from the mirror, planting her hands on her face as she breathed in deeply. In, and out. In, and out…

She’d be okay, as time went by. Marina had to believe that, because what else was there?

When you’re a participant in a festival like that…

Where all you have are the enemies who want you dead, the creepy Bremen soldier who wants to see under your skirt, a doctor who was forced to use his skills to murder instead of heal, and the ex-soldier who you may or may not have been crushing on… that is, before he was viciously slaughtered by a monster right in front of you.

No one walks out of something like that without a few scars.

And… well.

She hadn’t been the only one to walk out, apparently.

A certain someone had followed her to Valland’s capital, though Marina still had no idea who- or what- she was. She, or it, bared an uncanny resemblance to the girl from the festival, the one that was supposed to be dead.

Marina just barely recalled her name… Samarie.

Her face was one of many that showed up in her dreams each night. Greasy black her, sickly pale skin, and swathed in a sense of desperation… the girl who had said she loved her, the girl who had stabbed her father, and the girl who had apparently been a part of the ninth circle (that Marina had only ever heard sick and twisted rumours of).

Marina still struggled to even comprehend her.

And now, a version of Samarie had managed to follow her here, even though the rules of Termina had dictated only one may walk out. So either the black-haired girl managed to break the rules somehow, or she had been replaced by some twisted creature from Prehevil.

Samarie hadn’t been that bad company to be honest, aside from being a tad delusional and creepy. Marina definitely knew which option of the two she preferred, but unfortunately, she also knew which one was more likely- some kind of doppelgänger, no doubt.

Calmer now, she let her hands fall back down by her sides, letting out a deep exhale. Even now, she had a niggling feeling that Samarie was watching her…

Well, could be worse.

She could have jumped down that damn toilet at the beginning of the festival and have rotted there in faeces for the rest of her days, like some idiot. (Shit, imagine if she had done that? She’d never live it down… and she’d never live, period.)

Marina walked out of her cramped bathroom and let herself fall with a “thwump!” on a lumpy couch, courtesy of one of her newly-made acquaintances- she’d met some kindred spirits recently who also studied occultism, and they were nice, she supposed.

All she could do now was wait and see if “Samarie” ever revealed herself, and attempt to scrub her mind of the scarring memories from the festival. She didn’t even want to think about that bastard Per’kele and his twisted games ever again.

And just… hope, that everything would turn out alright.

But she knew one thing- she was never doing rituals in the name of that bastard Rher ever again.

[whitherwordswither]

Dead Ringing, Pt. 5

Outside the facility I dialed the bureau, reaching out to Akeno. Reception transferred and he picked up halfway through the first ring. "Warrick. Any leads?" Straight to the point as usual.

I huffed, shaking my head as if he could see it. "Yeah, possibly. I ah… I think this one is going to get a bit… complex. Mars is on her way back with a couple of samples. Make sure those get to forensics a-sap. You're also going to want to send a clean up crew. One body to collect."

"A body?" Akeno shuffled at his desk. "Hopefully not a body that could have provided us some answers?" I chuckled. Dry. Humorless.

"No, luckily. I guess. Ehhh~ One of the samples Mars is bringing in… this… device, whatever it is. It was attached to a cadaver's neck. I'm not sure how the hell it did what it did, but… the fucking corpse was mobile. Some kind of reanimator… or something. The thing was mentally unstable, it tore the chip off itself. I don't think this is going to be cut and dry."

Akeno was silent for a few moments, then sighed. "Well, shit. Alright. I guess you're good to go then. Lock it up and I'll get a crew on the way." After a beat, he asked. "And Mars? How was she?"

"Good eyes. Pleasant to work with. Better sense of humor than you. She'll do just fine." I smirked at the scoff on the other end of the line.

"Alright. Thanks, Warrick. I'll keep in touch. Keno out." The line clicked off and I tapped a claw over my pad's screen, bringing back up the security terminal for the facility. I enabled a lockdown override, tucked the pad in to a pocket and headed back toward the transit station, my thoughts churning over what had happened.

I didn't have the entire picture yet. Someone needed a whole lot of bodies. But for what? How did the chip that reanimated the corpse actually work? We were surprisingly lucky to have encountered a seemingly forgotten straggler. More than likely they were on a time table and couldn't afford to calibrate that individual unit as they made off with the rest. The erratic behavior would have been awful to deal with. According to storage records, sixty pods were brought out of stasis. That meant there were fifty-nine unaccounted for. Were they aware? Could they recall anything of their prior lives? I stopped halfway to the transit platform, staring straight ahead. Wait. Was I forgetting something? I furrowed my brow, whiskers wiggling. Shit. Yes, yes I was. We had checked inside. But we hadn't checked outside. Preoccupied. Foolish.

I turned and headed back toward cold storage.

Fifty-nine bodies didn't just walk out. Security had been disabled. Above ground camera footage was nonexistent for the time period. I wandered the perimeter of the building, making my way around back. Who ever had removed the bodies had been utilizing the maintenance halls. They connected to all levels of the facility. The easiest way in and out with that route would be the loading bays. Docks. Equipment and supplies didn't just get shuffled on in through the front door.

There was nothing out of the ordinary along the first few bay doors. The final one at the opposite end from where I'd started, however, bore some interesting differences. The first and glaringly obvious were the fresh tracks in the dirt road between segments of cracked pavement. Heavy tread. Large truck. The door itself was as pristine as the others. The keypad at its right was what caught my attention. The plating was ever so slightly skewed. I hated it when things didn't line up just right. They stood out to me. This was no different. I poked my claws around the edge of the pad, applying just enough pressure on either side. It popped loose, exposing wires and circuitry. For such a pristine facility and relatively high tech structure, it shouldn't have given so easily. It had been tampered with.

After replacing the panel I pulled out my data pad and shot jotted down a few notes as I followed the road up from the bays, following the short run of tracks in the dirt before coming to a stop again, staring down the road. It ran the perimeter of the dome before curving back in to the city ruins. I sent the update to Akeno. It really didn't give us any extra super important information, but I could at least pat myself on the back and not feel like I half assed my assignment. With a sigh, I headed for the transit station. Again.

The cleanup crew was just arriving as I rounded the building. A sentient avalanche separated from the vehicle, a tree trunk section splitting from itself, waving like an appendage. "Eeey, lookit who is! They still throwing scraps your ways, eh, mutt?" It turned out not to be a physical manifestation of the Swiss Alps wearing dark navy coveralls, but a large white furred bear. Polar variety. My lips curve with a smile and I strode over to clasp his hefty, warm paw in my own.

"Mori, you behemoth! Still slinging mops?"

"Hah! Only when newbies losing their lunch. Get to play seer over the parade now. Is nice. Pays more better." He hadn't let go of my hand and pulled me close, muzzles almost touching as he leaned down. His body was big enough to block the exchange from view of the rest of the crew. "Missing your company, wolf. Free for drinking soon, yeah?"

His snout brushed against mine and I leaned in to it, giving a little laugh as he kissed my cheek. "Yeah, that might be nice Mori… things've been in a bit of a slump lately and…"

The bear cut me off. "All more reason to be joining! Old Mori will help the troubles with washing away." Mori squeezed my hand tighter, nuzzling against my ear a bit before pulling back, clapping me hard enough on the shoulder to almost knock me off balance. A call from the vehicle had him looking over and grunting a command. When he turned back to me, he was all smiles again. "Favor yourself. Call your friend Mori soon, yes? Or he may just have to bring the drinking to you, mutt." He pressed his paw to the side of my face, a soft warmth lighting up his stoic features, thumb tracing the contour of my cheek. His eyes lingered on mine for a few moments before his paw dropped to my shoulder, giving it another squeeze before he turned and lumbered off toward the vehicle, waving an arm as he looked back with a grin. "Catch you."

"Y-yeah, heh. Catch ya." I huffed, rubbing my cheek, feeling a little flushed. With a chuckle and a shake of my head I waved and continued on. I was suddenly feeling very tired and glad the night would soon be over.

The small knot in my gut told me this was going to be one of those nights…

[intolerancecare]

Violence

If they'll see my blog are they going to bring me to rehab again?

Newton sent me there? If I curse at them, it's because they terminated me with no apparent reason. No reason at all

A nurse who endorses to doctors?

Because of restless injured employees?

Fuck you all!!!!!!!

I am fully aware of my anger.

Too much aware...

I am not MONATUS!!!!!! I have more experience and knowledge compared to a bagger who knows nothing but lowly staff rumours.

Did you see how I wanted to finish you in my head? It was for your own good. I'm sorry... I failed.

You heard me howl like a crazy dog inside that effing rehab? EFFING REHAB!!!!!! Should I laugh and party in that place?

Newton I come to work almost 2 hours early. Your other staff eats at the small pantry. I stay at my table and read the latest trending book. That is me. Always updated with the bestselling and trending book.

I stop exactly on time. I check my files. Sorry for the inaccuracy of blank items. It is always corrected before making a discrepancy right? That's the only mistake that I had. You want me to list down my tasks in that office? The HR staff title. YOU OWE ME.

The nurse will say, I did inventory, first aid, monitoring, COVID test, didn't have time with the planning, referrals. That's the nurse. My ate just watch movies in their clinic. The HR Staff did more than half of the nursing task. My GOD what kind of nurse will let themselves be ask by an HR manager to photocopy their employees' evaluation form. To think that she has a staff who likes to linger at the FB of applicants? As if he's recruiting a dozen of applicants a day. He can't even organize his files. I organize their files. The liaison officer who was added to the team can't even encode request at SAP. I process all their request at SAP. I owe you? for what? For the likes of Veronica's company? For Alshaya?

Fuck you. 6 accounting staff? 3 payrolls? and me this much responsibility?!!! because they can do the nurses' staff? Terminate me? I'll never come 5 feet close to anyone aside from my officemates. Another doctor at Makati Med who looks like lee and laughs like a crazy actor like arjun. Oh there is another Angel looking guy like lee in VXI. Whenever they are around, I'll be terminated? You are paying my siblings? made their pockets full because they brought me to rehab?

So PLV is also terminating me because of that effing erickson. That crazy erickson who whisper songs to me like arjun? Are they all undergrad? unlicensed? They are me because I let my friends copy my answer in exams? or because I answered my fiends exam because I was exempted and expected to get a flat 1? i already got my Karma. I got 1.5.

Putang ina pinapogi nyo lang pala si arjun.

Fuck you all. Terminate me because of them?

MY uterus they are destroying? In replacement of not locking into rehab?

Fuck you!!!!!!!!

[its-toasted]

A 20XX brick about everything

I ripped out the pit and she posted a picture of tacos. Just kidding. Like that did happen, but it's not representative of anything, except the culture at the time. Like I'd like a medley stream of pictures while I'm crying, that would help, yes. Yes it would. I heart this post, and I know my mutual feels me, in all this fullness, u, across the universe with blanket and hot drank, for me? Fuck, I'm touched. Just lock up my energy into a bar then it's bearable, otherwise I'm a bit lopsided.

I guess I'm always lopsided to you. Normally if we talk -- you and I, not the her-you, which I do sometimes, but the you-you, yes, your faceass, that is correct, I am clairvoyant. Uh I guess normally I would let you know what stage of life I'm in. Just off the strength of setting or scene or something childish and unmistakable. But this time I think it just works better this way.

.

There was this chick, and it was real and we were the best. That was a test, and I don't know if you failed it but I judge you accordingly. It was an old iconic tumblr photo from back in the day, so if you're not up on that you've been respectfully weeded out. Another gem went like -- Caroline, you are my working week my sunday rest, blah blah blah and sunday best, north east south west bitch, chiseled into the tree bark. That can't be right. This place is for saps. This place has always been a part of me, I do have tacit love for that, being of here, much as the XXX, or xxco, or college park, or home court, or a dark night on the road. I've been posting bad music here since 2011 man, and 11's my favorite number, so preeetty sure it's my year. It early

This place is origin, like I grew up reading books and playing ball and falling in love until what, about 21. And coming back to dream here, even after years. What was real before the page, before I was 14 and thinking in song and synonym and sheet music? Or when I first saw Miles Hodges and Andrea Gibson and Mac Miller flutter with a pen. This box is a makeshift sanctuary for me, it often has been. I have a theory you get ghost-banned because you saved way too much shit in drafts, or are otherwise just a stupid large load on staff resources, but if you ask nicely enough they may pity you. They roll a die. May will be here in 3 weeks, and that means there's only 5 months until Cam's wedding, and I'm worried I won't fit. Nah that's clown talk. We just booked tickets to Colorado, the one time I went it was May too.

Do you know the odds of being for someone? I think about so much in odds, maybe that's from being naturally smooth with the math as with english as a yung back in the day u know me. Uh or scrolling on maplestory, or playing what are the odds with Cam in pews and halls and terminals and drive thrus, and having to put my tongue on some unpleasant fucking shit. I'm not great at math anymore, but still very good at the basics. And estimation, that's what I mean, I never want to know the truth. I'd like to guess and then be moved, you feel me. No you don't, since that sounds dumb, but it's true. I'd love to learn so much that I'm a burden, because I was always really good then.

With this girl, lol I've built up this anticipation like charging the sun, and for what huh. Here it is, and it's the same as per uje. How I crave more than anyone is able to give, because I chase loving that needs me to be more than I am, and I can't be, so you see it's a stand-still. She was so different, and it still wasn't different with her. If I'm not drawn out of the bad parts of me it won't last. I've been a lot of boys, like cold and loud and proud and hard, but none of those are nature. I guess the second likely was. And the first is becoming, I hate that. I won't say there's a better way but I do fight it, though. I do see why most end up with another from home, who else could know you

[apineapplewithissues]

24. Mine

@whumpster-dumpster - for the prompts 💕

Whumper slammed their hand down onto the table, jaw tight and eyes ablaze at the man on the opposite end. “What do you mean, ‘terminated?’ Whumpee is my project, you can’t decide to just cancel it.”

“But I can,” superior said. “Your work isn’t showing us any results, and it’s costing us too much. I’m terminating it.”

Whumper wanted to tell, to hit, to squeeze their bosses head until their eyes popped out like corks... but they didn’t. Instead, they took a step back, digging their nails into the fleshy part of their hand. “So what happens to whumpee then? After all I’ve done they just get thrown back in as a lab rat?”

“Of course not,” superior said, flicking through leaflets of papers. “They’ll be terminated as well.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t be coy.” They said, smiling. “You surely don’t feel anything for that thing do you? I thought I’ve made it quite clear no attachments are to be made with the play-things. This is why.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” whumper spluttered, blood draining from their face at the prospect of whumpee taken from them, “why does whumpee have to be terminated?”

“Because he’s contaminated.” Superior said, standing. “You can’t seriously expect the rigorous training schedule you put him through to not cause any alterations in his psychology. He’s useless now, and draining money. I don’t need him anymore, now if you’ll excuse me.”

Superior motioned to the door with a fake smile, and whumper glared at them, face stony and blood boiling.

They left, mind racing about superiors stupidity. All they needed was more time, more patience. Whumpee will be perfect, and nothing will stand in whumpers way.

They strode to the containment hall, flicking their ID over the scanners as they passed, ignoring the other whumpees bed ridden and ill.

Whumper finally stopped at their whumpees door, hovering the keycard over and growling when a sharp beep rang through the air, followed by a red, denied symbol.

“Hey, whumper? You’re not allowed in there anymore.”

Whumper stayed calm, collected, stepping away with a smile. “Ah really? I guess I’ll have to go talk to superior then eh? Thanks pal-“

Whumper smiled, putting their hand on their shoulder before slamming them hard against the Perspex, the clear material cracking and leaving crimson droplets at the impact. They remained unmoving as whumper picked up their ID card, swiping it over whumpee door and smiling when it clicked open.

Whumpee was already awake, eyes wide and fearful. “What was that? Th-the loud noi-“

“Sh-sh, don’t worry about that, we need to get out of here.”

“What why?”

Whumper grabbed whumpees hand and dragged them out of the room, whumpee stumbling to keep up over whumpers brisk pace.

“Whumper? O-ow, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, never.” Whumper replied, weaving through corridors effortlessly, knowing them like the back of their hand. “You’re perfect for me, they don’t understand it.”

“Understand what whumper? I... I don’t know what’s-“

“Just be quiet.” Whumper hissed, squeezing hard on whumpees wrists and making them whimper. They saw two guards blocking the exit, tazers in hand. Whumper knew he wouldn’t be able to sneak by, so he tried something else instead. He straightened, putting his hand on whumpees shoulder and adopted a smile.

He walked out with whumpee who fell silent, understanding something was at play, the guards noticed them coming, brows furrowing.

“Hey, what are you doing with one of the subjects? I thought they were never-“

“Nope,” whumper interjected, coming up with an explanation on the spot. “They want to see how whumpees react to certain allergens, so we are permitted to take them outside. If you want to be sure though, you could call superior, but he might not be happy that precious time is wasted for some-“

“Alright, alright, we get it. Just hurry up and get to where you’re going, Jeez.”

Whumper smiled at that, guiding whumpee outside with a thrumming heart. They felt whumpee stiffen beside him, but they were too elated, too giddy, beaming like a damn lighthouse.

Whumpee was out, free, all theirs to play with.

Until a gunshot rang in the clearing.

They fell as the dart sapped their strength, whumpee frantically calling for them with wide confused eyes. Whumper pulled it out with a fuzzy head, anger swarming their mind and thickening their blood.

Hands pried them away from whumpee, and they kicked and screamed, thrashing against the hands. It wasn’t long before everything became too much, his eyes too heavy, and limbs too slow. He hit the ground, eyes locked on whumpees, now leaning on superior with doe eyes. Their anger snuffed out, longing to be at whumpees side.

***

“Is... is he gonna be ok?” Whumpee asked, nervously picking at his nails, back in his room, the glass was still cracked and stained red... the poor guard no-where to be seen though. Whumpee still wasn’t sure what had happened.

“He’ll be fine, but what I want to talk about right now is you.” Superior said, holding a clipboard. “Has whumper always been so attached to you?”

“Attached? Uhm... no, I don’t think so... he’s... attached to me?” Whumpee said, stomach filling with butterflies at the thought of whumper needing them, like a drug.

Superior tilted their head, eyes shifting. “What is your relationship with whumper?”

“He’s my handler. He’s great at what he does sir, I’m not sure what had gotten into him... it was... scary.”

“I know pet, but, was he ever really close to you? Did he ever do anything?”

Whumpee thought hard for a long time before answering. “No... Not from what I can tell.”

“Well aren’t you just full of answers then?” Superior said, putting the clipboard down. “You know, I’m thinking about re-opening this project, you were going to be terminated.”

Whumpees blood ran cold. “Terminated?”

“Yes, terminated, but if you can cultivate whumpers behaviour I’ll see if I can keep you around a little longer see?” He said tapping the clip-board.

Whumpee licked their lips, suddenly dry. “But, I can’t manipulate him, he’s my handler, he trusts me.”

“I didn’t say to manipulate him, just cultivate his possessive tendencies.” Superiors lip twitched, quirking into a smile. “It’s all for a good cause in the end.”

Whumpee hesitated, pulling at their nails before nodding, looking at the shattered barrier. “As long as it’s good for whumper... what do you want me to do?”

Superior smiled, leaning back and splaying their fingers. “Well, just be as you are, tell whumper how much you need him, and be a good little subject, alright?”

Whumpee nodded, eyes low. “Alright.”

Superior smiled, standing and turning to leave. “But don’t get any wrong ideas here whumpee,” he spoke, “if whumper doesn’t need you anymore you’re through. Terminated.”

Whumpee swallowed, nodding.

Superior grinned, patting them on the head like the dog they were. “In no time you’ll be his, and in turn,” superior grinned, uncanny. “He’ll be back under my thumb, all mine.”

Whumpee couldn’t help but feel dread form at the base of their spine, wondering if this would really help whumper in the end.

[wazafam]

While he claims to not be a serial killer, Saw villain Jigsaw is one of the most effective murderers in horror, though there have been a few victims that have escaped his grasp. Of course, were one to ask John Kramer himself, back when he was alive, anyway, he would've insisted that what he did wasn't murder. Instead, John used the Jigsaw identity to help wayward and damaged people reform, learning to have a new appreciation for life by making a sacrifice of blood and flesh to survive.

In reality, Jigsaw's twisted methods are impossible to condone. His games are nothing more than a sick vigilante taking punishment into his own hands. John may have been a decent man once upon a time, but the loss of his unborn son and the dissolution of his marriage, coupled with the terminal cancer eating away at him, eventually sapped every last bit of true humanity from his heart. No decent person could do what he does to people and not go mad.

Related: Is Jigsaw In Spiral? Saw Villain Future Explained

For the Saw fans, though, there's no reason to hate John, as in fiction, the normal bounds of morality don't necessarily apply. Many of the people Jigsaw targets are far from sympathetic characters, and watching them get theirs can be a form of catharsis. Sometimes though, the players of Jigsaw's games have survived to tell the tale. Here are all of the survivors of Jigsaw's games.

Amanda Young (Shawnee Smith) was the first known survivor of a Jigsaw trap, in her case the infamous reverse bear trap. To free herself, she had to kill a man and retrieve the key to the device on her face from inside his stomach. As traumatic as it was, Amanda then kicked her drug addiction and ended up joining John as his first confirmed apprentice, designed to help Jigsaw's work continue despite John's failing health. Sadly, she lost her way and began designing inescapable traps. John tested her again, and she failed, dying in the process.

Not everyone who gets mixed up in Jigsaw's games is a particular target of his wrath. In some cases, they're just those close to the main test subject, such as the wife and daughter of Dr. Lawrence Gordon (Cary Elwes). Dr. Gordon, of course, famously survived his test in the first Saw movie by sawing off his own foot. Meanwhile, his wife Alison and daughter Diana survived their own captivity at the hands of Zep, a man forced into working for Jigsaw. Lawrence would go on to survive and become another Jigsaw apprentice, as revealed in Saw 7.

Jeff Ridenhour is a very minor character in Saw lore, but still a memorable one. In Jeff's case, he didn't necessarily deserve to survive his Jigsaw test, but was saved by Detectives David Tapp (Danny Glover) and Steven Sing (Ken Leung). Doing so led to dire consequences for the cops, though – so perhaps the tradeoff wasn't exactly fair.

Related: Saw 2's Venus Fly Trap Mask Was The First Hint At Dr. Gordon Twist

Daniel Matthews was tested much less due to his own petty crimes, and more because he was the son of Eric Matthews (Donnie Wahlberg), an explosively violent cop who was Saw 2's primary Jigsaw target. Eric survived being placed in a group of people who had been wrongly convicted of crimes thanks to his father, but was then placed inside a safe to be used as leverage for Eric's test. Daniel survived, but Eric didn't come out intact.

Corbett Denlon and Judge Halden are two minor Saw 3 characters who were pulled into Jigsaw's games with Jeff Denlon in Saw 3. Halden was the man who gave the drunk driver that killed Jeff's son a light sentence. To save Halden, Jeff had to burn cherished mementos connected to his son. Halden later died trying to help Jeff save his son's killer from a trap. Corbett, Jeff's young daughter, was "saved" by Jigsaw apprentice Mark Hoffman after Jeff failed his test.

Easily the most dangerous and sadistic of Jigsaw's apprentices, Detective Mark Hoffman (Costas Mandylor) ended up working for John Kramer after faking a Jigsaw murder in order to kill the man who had taken his sister's life. Seeing Hoffman's potential, but not appreciating being ripped off, John offered him a chance to join the cause. Hoffman continued the games long after John's death but got tested for the first time himself via his own reverse bear trap thanks to John's widow, Jill. Hoffman survived and killed Jill, but later lost for good against Dr. Gordon.

FBI Agent Peter Strahm (Scott Patterson), along with his partner Lindsey Perez, investigated the Jigsaw case, and both ultimately died as a result, but not before escaping at least one of Jigsaw's traps. Strahm instantly suspected Hoffman was in on things, and that didn't change following his own escape from a Jigsaw trap that involved an improvised pen tracheotomy to avoid drowning in a box locked on his head. Still, his dogged pursuit of the truth cost him dearly, as he was later crushed to death by the encroaching walls of a room, while Hoffman smugly escaped the area.

Related: Why Saw Has The Greatest Horror Movie Twist Ending Of All Time

Strahm's partner Agent Perez survived a nasty Jigsaw trap involving an exploding puppet sending shrapnel into her face thanks to the efforts of Strahm himself. The FBI faked her death in order to try and get one over on John's still unidentified Jigsaw accomplice, although Perez eventually resurfaced, only to get stabbed to death by Hoffman when his crimes were revealed.

Art Blank (Justin Louis) was one of the featured Jigsaw test subjects in Saw 4, and was chosen due to his profession. Art was a lawyer, and one with a habit of defending clients who were guilty as sin and helping them escape justice. Art had been John's friend and business partner, but after a falling out, was forced to kill another man in order to survive a trap. He was then forced to help Jigsaw set up another game, only to later be shot by cop Daniel Rigg. Morgan was a related survivor, the wife of an abusive husband and father that Art had gotten off. She had to kill her husband to live and to set herself free in more ways than one.

Brit Stevenson (Julie Benz) was one of the main test subjects in Saw 5, a corrupt corporate executive who hired an arsonist to burn down an apartment building so that she could buy the property it sat on, not realizing people were inside at the time. None of the victims in Saw 5 were without sin, but Brit and Mallick Scott, the arsonist, managed to survive multiple traps on their way to victory and rescue by the FBI.

Tara and Brent Abbott were a quite innocent mother and son who got roped into Jigsaw's Saw 6 game, which revolved around heartless insurance executive William Easton. Easton denied their husband/father live-saving care, and after Easton survived his own tests, his fate was left up to them. Tara couldn't bring herself to kill Easton, but Brent did it, instead, in a rage over his father's death.

Related: Why The Most Disturbing Saw Trap Isn't Actually The Needle Pit

The corrupt exec William Easton (Peter Outerbridge) survived his own tests, although not without having to make agonizing decisions along the way, including which of his also mostly corrupt employees he would save. Easton's company had also denied John Kramer potentially life-saving treatment, thus his posthumous vendetta. William opted to save his secretary, Addy, as well as other subordinates, Shelby and Emily. He was also able to save his sister Pamela by completing his game, but couldn't survive the vengeful Abbots.

Bobby Dagen (Sean Patrick Flanery) became a successful self-help guru on the back of surviving a Jigsaw trap and then writing a book about it, or at least that's his claim. None of it is true, leading him to become the main test subject of Saw 7. Bobby has to watch his wife get roasted alive in a giant oven, although he does manage to escape with his own life. Joan is a very brief character in the franchise, a Jigsaw survivor whose story Bobby uses as inspiration for his lies.

In Saw 7, Bobby Dagen chaired a support group of Jigsaw survivors, although unlike him, their stories were real. Mallick Scott survived alongside Brit Stevenson in Saw 5, losing most of his blood in the process. Simone chopped off her own arm to survive a "pound of flesh" trap in Saw 6. Brad and Ryan had to choose between killing each other, or the girlfriend who had been cheating on them both, and they chose her. Sidney had to send her abusive boyfriend into lawnmower blades. Addy and Emily from Easton's company, were also group members, as were Dr. Lawrence Gordon, and Tara Abbott.

Logan Nelson (Matt Passmore) was an Army veteran and battlefield medic who was tested after his return to civilian life saw him mess up an X-ray and accidentally delay the diagnosis of John's cancer. Logan's trap went wrong, though, and since it was John's fault, he took pity on Logan and freed him. Grateful, Logan became an apprentice and conducted the games seen in 2017's Jigsaw.

Spiral: From the Book of Saw recently continued Jigsaw's legacy, albeit with a new killer and 100 percent less John Kramer. The only test survivor in Spiral is lead protagonist Zeke Banks (Chris Rock), seemingly the one honest cop in a corrupt department full of liars and killers. Granted, he clearly wasn't intended to die, as new killer William Schenk wanted them to join forces and clean up the city. Zeke is able to free himself from a handcuff trap similar to the one in the first Saw movie and ends up getting cut up by glass trying to save his old corrupt partner. Zeke lives, but his former police chief father isn't so lucky.

More: Spiral 2: What To Expect

Saw: Every Character Who Survived A Jigsaw Trap (And What Came Next) from https://ift.tt/3tUCVkh

[knightingale-xiv]

Nightingale's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week: Day 6

Chip slowly opened his eyes, letting out a low groan as his senses returned to him. He had been having such a nice dream too...Now it was back to the reality of his situation. He had been locked up in the main office of the prison camp for a little while now. The Roegadyn, Falling Timbers, came in to beat on him every now and again to try and get him to talk, but other than that his interactions with Garlean guards was pretty minimal.

He wasn't in the best shape though...one eye was blackened and somewhat swollen, and he was pretty sure a couple of his ribs were broken. The sluggish response of his left arm told him it was probably out of socket too...The downside to not being able to feel pain, was being unable to tell what sort of condition you were in...

They had kept him here overnight and through the day yesterday and they had done a pretty good job of keeping him in the dark so far. He figured he would be given a strike and let go, but they were holding onto him...that worried him. He hoped someone would come and tell him what was up soon...

As if hearing his thoughts, the door opened and two guards came in. It was the same two that had captured him the first time. The older man motioned for Chip to stand.

"Come on, kid...The warden wants to talk to you." He grunted. Chip could see a look of pity in his eye as he looked the boy over. Seems he didn't approve of kids getting beaten up for a day. Even if Chip was technically an adult, he had a bad case of baby face. He would probably always look younger than he was, because of it. The two men helped Chip to his feet, undoing the chains on his legs that had kept him tethered to the wall.

They began walking through an unfamiliar passageway heading down. An underground facility? Chip did his best to make sure he took in everything, just in case. Two things caught his eye. Pretty close to a set of stairs was a storage room. The door was open and a Garlean was inside looking for something. There was a dusty banner of some sort in the corner...Looked like it had a sun on it, but it wasn't Garlean.

The second thing was a room with 'Ceruleum Power Plant' on the door. That must be where the power to the rest of the factories came from...good to know. He couldn't speculate much more, as they rounded the corner into another room. This one definitely screamed 'torture chamber', complete with a scary looking chair and a metal rack of weird implements. Neither guard looked comfortable being in here...

The warden was waiting in there, examining a row of pliers, before turning to face the trio. "Ah, excelent...thank you gentlemen, that will be all.." he waved for the guards to leave after they had cuffed Chip to the chair.

"Sir, this prisoner has no strikes." The younger guard began. "And he's just a kid...Is this really necessary?" The warden turned his pointed gaze at the man and didn't respond. That was enough to make the guard back down. They left quietly and quickly, leaving Chip to his fate.

"This is a nice room. Don't suppose this is yhe friendly torture chamber? Where you get to know prisoners before letting them go?" Chip asked with a smirk. Torture was never really something he worried about...the only danger was dying, but since he couldn't feel pain he wasn't really sure what they hoped to accomplish. The warden chuckled and moved a stool over to sit beside Chip.

"You think you're funny, don't you..." the Garlean pureblood asked softly, his voice deceptively relaxed and friendly.

"I like to think so. They say if you can't find something funny in the moment, then what's the point?" Chip responded with the same level of measured casualness...like two friends catching up over coffee. The warden nodded and rolled his stool to a magitek terminal up against the wall.

"You know, in your older works you seemed more...serious and stoic. It makes me wonder if you truly ARE him..." he murmured, powering the device on. The screen began to light up displaying a series of images. Chip had a hard time getting all the details, but as they focused and became sharper, his stomach sank.

On the monitor were a series of still images that depicted a young brown haired Chip escaping a castrum with his squad, their VIP in tow, back in his Immortal Flame days. In addition were photos of Nightingale's two most recent excursions into Garlemald...One to rescue his engineer, and one to rescue V'ieh's fiance Kudros...He had taken significant damage on both trips, so his mask was partially broken. Each image showed some similarities...White hair and a piercing blue eye for the Nightingale photos, and the same scar structures and eyes on Chip's Immortal Flames photos.

"Arthur D'ehcan...I know that last name. The Desert Wolf shares it...D'ehcan...a reistance member and elusive combatant. Frumentari agents reported a sighting of him in Ul'dah some time back, speaking with this masked vigilante...the Nightingale." The warden said, eyes boring into the side of Chip's head. "He bears a striking resemblance to you...He was then seen speaking with a young doctor named Chip Wayman later that moon. Former Private in the Immortal Flames, dishonorably discharged for abandonment of duty...A shame, that." The warden zoomed in on two of the images.

"The Nightingale and Private Wayman were known for two things...Bringing hope to people, and rescuing prisoners from camps and castrums." The warden stood up and strode over to the stunned Chip. "They're both you, aren't they...Arthur..." he murmured. "Which means you are here for a singular purpose...to rob me of my charges..." the tall pureblood leaned down until his emerald eyes were level with Chip's own blues.

"I have been watching things ever since you said your name...I have noticed that people have been more...motivated since you arrived. I have seen hope in their eyes, and purpose in their step...you are planning a jail break...Tell me who your co-conspirators are..."

Chip blinked...he didn't know? Relief flooded him. Even if he knew Chip's identity, he didn't know entirely who to look out for. Chip smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Sorry, Warden...I'm kind of a lone wolf...or well, bird I guess. Fly solo. I don't have any conspirators, and if I did I definitely wouldn't tell you. So go ahead...torture me all you want." He settled back in his chair to wait.

Anger flashed through the warden's eyes at Chip's blatant defiance. This insolent brat...this CHILD masquerading as a hero was opposing him...threatening everything he had worked towards...He wasn't going to let this happen. He smiled a dark and cruel smile and straighted up, adjusting his jacket.

"Very well, Nightingale...If you won't tell me, I'll simply have to eliminate them all." He said, tone silky smooth and dripping with venom. Chip sharply turned his gaze up at the pureblood. He wouldn't! He COULDN'T! The young hero pulled against his restraints and grit his teeth.

"No! Don't you dare!"

"You did this...YOU forced my hand, and now we will have to start from the ground up...perhaps I'll spare say...half of them, just to ensure work can continue until we capture more...yes, half will work nicely." The warden turned and began to stride out.

"You bastard! Don't do it!" Chip yelled after him, furiously struggling against his binds. He had to stop him! "Its me you want, not them!" The warden paused in his stride and looked over his shoulder.

"Hmm...a fair point..." he snapped his fingers and a guard approached. "Inform the prisoners that there will be a demonstration in the morning. We are going to execute this...symbol of hope for all to see..." he smiled at Nightingale. "Then wipe out half the prisoners to sink the message in..."

Chip screamed in defiance, pulling hard on his restraints. His aether dampener crackled slightly, before the chains shattered and the boy launched himself forward. He wasn't fast enough...the heavy metal door closed and gas began to fill the room.

"Goodnight, hero...in the morning, you will do Garlemald a grand service and show these rabble the price of hope and heroism..." the warden said through the door before walking away.

Chip pounded on the door, yelling for someone to open it...to stop this madness...but no one answered and slowly he felt his strength sap away as the gas did its job and sent him back to a forced slumber...

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Final Day

[pannimanagementteam]

Netsuite Rivals: The Final Word Guide

Microsoft is probably certainly one of the bigger names in ERP, with solutions for each small and mid-size enterprise and enormous enterprise. Business Central is their SME cloud answer, based mostly on their legacy NAV system. Currently, it has broad functionality throughout most enterprise areas, with extra sturdy capabilities being added because the product matures. IWI Consulting Group offered us with a great sage x3 demo buyer experience in our implementation of Sage X3. IWI took the time to properly scope out our necessities and instilled business finest practices throughout implementation and training. The end result was that our day-to-day operations has been streamlined round our processes and this has supplied us large value savings.

A bill of supplies, also referred to as a BOM, is the great record of all required components, items, raw materials, and assemblies that you should manufacture a product. A BOM also contains instructions on how to use the required components, as nicely as directions on procuring the materials. A BOM is amongst the most essential paperwork for a custom manufacturer—think of it as a recipe—as it contains all the elements and steps you have to take to manufacture your product. It will help all your departments since it manages paperwork specific to each of the sectors. In the special case of ransomwares assaults, it sometimes possible to recuperate the info by understanding the encryption process.

We desperately wanted to revamp our website and implement a buying part to it. From initiation to completion, commercebuild stored us on schedule and on finances. For those issues that were not lined in the price range, commercebuild was up entrance and clear about any incremental costs, so we felt as if there have sage x3 demo been no hidden charges. However, commercebuild's true power is in its after market help. If we run into an issue, one e-mail and we get a response inside an hour, if not, inside minutes. Most of the time, the difficulty itself is resolved within the day.

SAP Business ByDesign is SAP’s first public cloud ERP, designed for mid-market wholesale distribution, manufacturing and professional providers companies. It presents robust performance for manufacturing, provide chain management and project management (for subject providers, repairs, etc.). Eventually your organization will grow otherwise you plan on your company to grow.

Integrates business processes – from purchasing to manufacturing, stock, gross sales, customer service and monetary management – within one cohesive software design. Security with HansaWorld's product was an important part of the original design. HansaWorld supports the essential "End person" imaginative and prescient of safety. User IDs with passwords, modules locked out by person, screens and “fields” on screens restricted by person. The software even allows for certain fields to turn out to be unavailable if a condition is met. PurpleSoft Mobile ERP brings you this control over data throughout the software and as it exists on your server.

Sage X3 empowers you to please your prospects with exceptional service. Full integration with gross sales, stock, purchasing, finance, and manufacturing supplies a 360-degree understanding of customer activity – all inside a single enterprise management resolution. The R/F terminals come outfitted with bar code scanners that get rid of the necessity for manual data entry. You can depend on the accuracy of ACCU-DART because of the real-time validation of precisely what is within the accounting system. The R/F devices automatically replace your accounting and inventory database which suggests there are no extra reconciliation issues or redundant knowledge.

Version 7 handles backward compatibility with model 6 through the Classic mode. Business management solutions from Sage transfer beyond the label. Wish that they had a full set that provided insert cards for “Books for baby” and “Diaper raffle” cards. The Corjl modifying was quite simple sage x3 demo and the instructions of what you'll find a way to and can't edit are straight ahead. By Making a purchase from Pixel Perfection Party LTD you agree to the terms and circumstances within this itemizing description.

Hansaworld recognizes that even small companies want nice performance and PurpleSoft Mobile ERP, we are ready to take care of you however whenever you develop, Standard ERP can take over the heavy lifting help 1 to 1000 Usrs. CRM software automates sales tasks, corresponding to creating quotes and orders, forecasting gross sales, pursuing leads and changing them into alternatives utilizing sales workflows. By using CRM software, your advertising staff can establish the sources of leads, alternatives and closed sales.They can even search out customer info for upcoming campaigns and launch focused e mail advertising campaigns. When prospects place orders on your products or services subsequent to these marketing campaigns, you can observe their orders using an ERP or business administration answer, like Sage 300cloud. We concentrate on helping corporations achieve the following degree of efficiency by way of deployment of the right-fit business management software program solutions.

[orsfri]

daisy lazy (1/?)

Summary: RusPru, German bros being bros; Gilbert steals something he really shouldn't have, Ludwig is TiredTM, Ivan is Arnold Schwarzenegger from Terminator 2 not paid enough for this, bad science, and there are tensions of all kind.

Today, I want to say that 1) Murphy’s law is absolutely real, and 2) @lyf: you've done it, you sapped me dry

-

“Well fuck,” says Gilbert.

Ludwig leans forward to peer over the railings. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“Of course not.” He peers too, anyway, in a rare feat of optimism. The roof of the car is dented, the anti-theft alarms blaring as frightened passers-by gather around it, and Ivan seems like any old corpse sprawled over the metal. “We better leave before he gets back up.” Ludwig is frozen, eyes wide and fingers clenched tight around the metal; shock, Gilbert knows. “Come on.” He pulls at Ludwig’s arm. “We got to go now.”

Ludwig lets himself be pulled away, and they break into a run towards the back-door the moment they step out of the elevator. The hair on Gilbert’s neck is standing as though they are watched by a phantom, but Ivan can’t have gotten up already. Not yet. Not based on what Gilbert does know about him, anyway, and Gilbert knows a lot these days. He knows enough to get both of them hunted, and that’s where it all went wrong, isn’t it? Ignorance is fucking bliss, and Gilbert’s not blissful, Gilbert’s fucked up big time, and look where they are now?

Look. Just look: what are they going to do now?

-

“Drive,” Gilbert orders, glancing skittishly towards the back.

Ludwig doesn’t look too happy to be ordered around. That, or he’s still a stickler for the rules even in such nerve-wracking times and does not want to drive a stolen car that Gilbert hotwired, but men pursued by one of the most notorious killers on the market can’t be fucking choosers, can they? Some stupid top-twenties pop song starts blaring from the radio; Ludwig switches it off before it can thoroughly ruin the mood. He locks the car doors.

“Put on your seatbelt,” he reminds, and for a moment it all feels so perfectly mundane that Gilbert wants to scream.

He doesn’t. Men pursued by one of the most notorious - yeah, you get the point. Men on the verge of death don’t have time for nervous breakdowns. He clips on his seatbelt and digs his nails into his knee as he watches Ludwig pulls out on the road, gradually picking up speed until they are on the expressway and out of the city.

“Where to?” Ludwig asks, jaws tense.

Gilbert doesn’t know. “Just drive,” he says, and that’s answer enough.

Ludwig drives.

-

They drive in silence until they are two cities away and the car complains that it is running out of fuel, because apparently they have the worse luck and stole from an owner that doesn’t keep their petrol tanks full.

Gilbert makes them pull over at a gas station. He waves away the jockey and releases his seat belt. “Ok,” he begins. “Ok ok ok. You’re going to wait here while I grab some stuff. See that guy over there?” Ludwig squints at where he’s pointing. “See, he’s leaving now to go into the minimart while that boy there takes care of his car. After the boy’s left and before the man’s back, I will steal his car. You’ll be lookout. Are we clear?”

“Brother,” Ludwig frowns. “I don’t think we should be doing this. What if -”

“Fun fact,” Gilbert interrupts, “if you want to live, you don’t have a choice. I know you’re a good citizen and you love rules and shit, but for once, do this for me.” He opens the car door, ignoring Ludwig’s attempt to protest. “Come on, I trust you, ok? You can do this.”

Ludwig thins his lips. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose; finally, he nods. Gilbert quashes the relief he feels as he closes the door, jogging towards the minimart to grab some perfunctory snacks and bottles.

He walks past the mark and slips his car keys - and his wallet too, just for kicks. He returns the wallet with only twenty bucks stolen. When he sees the jockey does his final wipe down, Gilbert rings up only the water and a packet of chips and slips out towards the car.

He’s almost to the car when that prickling feeling of being watched caused him to hesitate in his approach.

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Global Banking System Software Market : Industry Analysis and Forecast (2019-2026) – by Type, Application,Core Banking Software, Features of core banking software,and Region

Global Banking System Software Market size was US$ 26.71 Bn in 2019 and expected to reach US$ XX Bn by 2026, at a CAGR of XX % during forecast period.

The report includes the analysis of impact of COVID-19 lock-down on the revenue of market leaders, followers, and disrupters. Since lock down was implemented differently in different regions and countries, impact of same is also different by regions and segments. The report has covered the current short term and long term impact on the market, same will help decision makers to prepare the outline for short term and long term strategies for companies by region.

Banking system software market is segmented by type, application, and region. On basis of type banking system software market is segmented into core banking software, multi-channel banking software, bi software, and private wealth management software. Application segment is divided by risk management, information security, business intelligence, training and consulting solutions. Geographically, banking system software market is spread by North America, Asia-Pacific, Europe, Latin America, and Middle East & Africa.

Increasing implementation of online banking and mobile banking by customers which appearances high level of inclination towards accessing their account details and perform financial actions by digital platform driving the demands for banking system software .Customer can use their laptops, smartphones, tablets and emerging trends such as patch management is expected to provide numerous opportunities banking system software market growth. Banking system software market is driven by rising necessity to increase productivity and operational efficiency of banking industry. Furthermore, Concerns regarding information security and high costs of moving from legacy systems to the new automated systems limits the growth of this market.

Mobile Terminal Segment represented the major share in the global banking system software market owing to its high prevalence in the global market. The increase in cell phone purchasers has basically determined the market for mobile banking software. Advances in digital technology has offered countless of channels for customer interaction. Customer interaction via digital channels is generating beneficial transactional data. Mobile banking has been increasing with the growing number of smartphone owners with a bank account.

North America is projected to be the dominant region on account of the prevalent banking sector and high attentiveness of online banking. North America Market is followed by Asia-Pacific mainly on a result of the government initiatives in the banking industry. Remarkable demand is witnessed by developing nations such as India and China are accounted development of private and rural banking.

Microsoft Corporation, IBM Corporation, Oracle Corporation, SAP SE, Tata Consultancy Services Limited., Infosys Limited, Capgemini, Accenture., NetSuite Inc., and Deltek, Inc., Millennium Information Solution Ltd., Strategic Information Technology Ltd., Aspekt, Automated Workflow Pvt. Ltd, Canopus EpaySuite, Cashbook, CoBIS Microfinance Software, Probanx Information Systems, Megasol Technologies, EBANQ Holdings BV, Kapowai, Crystal Clear Software Ltd., Infrasoft Technologies Ltd., Misys, Banking.Systems, ABBA d.o.o., SecurePaymentz, TEMENOS Headquarters SA.

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The report also helps in understanding Global Banking System Software Market dynamics, structure by analyzing the Market segments, and project the Global Banking System Software Market size. Clear representation of competitive analysis of key players by type, price, financial position, product portfolio, growth strategies, and regional presence in the Global Banking System Software Market the report investor’s guide.

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The scope of Global Banking System Software Market

Global Banking System Software Market, by Type

• Windows • Android • iOS

Global Banking System Software Market , by Core Banking Software • Temenos Core Banking • MX for Banking • Oracle FLEXCUBE • Plaid • Q2ebanking • Others Global Banking System Software Market , by Features of core banking software

• Others Recording of transactions • Passbook maintenance • Interest calculations on loans and deposits • Customer records • Balance of payments and withdrawal • Others Global Banking System Software Market, by Application

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• North America • Europe • Asia Pacific • Middle East & Africa • Latin America Key Players Global Banking System Software Market

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[flotsam-gazette]

Night trains are making a comeback, and, even at a time of enforced leisure, their nostalgic luxury and latent sense of adventure make them a perfect imaginative indulgence. Illustration by Christoph Niemann

If on a winter’s night a traveller is about to board a train, a fortifying drink is of the essence. Thus it was that I stood in line at Burger King, on the concourse at Queen Street station, in Glasgow, and asked for a hot tea. The only reason that I wasn’t seeking out a dram of whiskey was that I had already done so, dropping into a pub on my way to the station. In short, I was well drammed up—as was the Glaswegian beside me, who leaned on the counter and inquired what I was up to. Taking the Caledonian Sleeper to London, I replied. He fixed me with a canny eye and said, “Are you not afraid o’ the wee virus?”

The answer, foolishly, was no. I was too excited by the thought o’ catching the wee train to be worried about catching anything else. It was late evening, on February 28th; the year would soon leap into the twenty-ninth, and that touch of temporal rarity added to the occasion. The departure of a night train—by definition, a humdrum event for the station staff—exudes, for all but the most jaded travellers, the thrill of an unfamiliar ritual. By day, if late, you run for a train; if early, you tut and sigh at having to tarry so long. At night, on the other hand, you saunter, and deliberately show up in good time. Why? Not because of security, passport control, or the other chores that affront the airline passenger, shortening tempers and sapping every soul, but because you want to settle in and enjoy the show. Patiently, the train awaits you, with a theatrical air of suspense, and the moment of its leaving is akin to the curtain’s rise. T. S. Eliot, for one, knew the moment well:

There’s a whisper down the line at 11:39 When the Night Mail’s ready to depart

That is the opening of “Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat,” from “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats,” published in 1939. Skimbleshanks, with his “glass-green eyes,” is a calming and supervising presence on the London-to-Glasgow line. His train departs, like mine, at twenty minutes to midnight, and he, too, consumes a cup of tea en route, “with perhaps a drop of Scotch.” As for Eliot’s account of the sleeping compartments, not much has changed:

Oh it’s very pleasant when you have found your little den With your name written up on the door. And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet And there’s not a speck of dust on the floor. There is every sort of light—you can make it dark or bright; There’s a handle that you turn to make a breeze. There’s a funny little basin you’re supposed to wash your face in And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.

If you want to teach a child the basics of onomatopoeia (and who doesn’t?), the clickety-lickety-clack of Eliot’s meter is a pretty good place to start. When I first read the poem, at the age of eight or nine, I thought that the chime of “basin” and “face in” was the funniest rhyme of all time. Decades later, and in spite of hot competition from Byron’s terminal couplets in “Don Juan,” I stand by my choice. All the more gratifying to discover that, in my very neat berth on the Caledonian Sleeper, I would, indeed, be in a position to wash my face in a basin.

But what position is that? In a word: hunched. Wide-open spaces, remember, are those green or rocky things outside a train, designed to be stared at through the window. Inside, all roaming is restricted. Only very seldom can you swing a cat, even if you can find a cat who agrees to be swung, and how, exactly, James Bond and his spectre-trained adversary made room in a sleeping compartment for mortal combat, in “From Russia with Love,” I have no idea.

As for suitcases, don’t bother. To embark with bulky baggage is asking for trouble, and, should it come to a scrap between you and your Samsonite, you will lose. Hence the contents of my rucksack on the Caledonian Sleeper, whittled to the bare necessities: toothbrush, toothpaste, Turgenev, T-shirt, underwear, and socks. When turning from the window to the door, in my compartment, I had to revolve on the spot, as if roasting on a vertical spit, and, despite my being the sole occupant, both bunks had been let down, locked into place, and joined by a ladder. A printed notice offered advice: “Guests should use the ladders in the traditional manner, by always facing the bed as they climb up and down.” What other manner is there? Had the train recently hosted the cast of Cirque du Soleil, perhaps, who insisted on descending head first, arms outstretched, after crooking one knee over the top rung?

No less baffling was the Room Service Menu. Pies, cheeses, broth, smoked venison on a platter, and a parade of wines and spirits: all these, and more, could be ferried to one’s bedside. Caledoniaphiles were urged to dine on “Haggis, Neeps & Tatties”—neeps meaning turnips, tatties meaning potatoes, and haggis meaning all your deepest terrors wrapped up in a sphere of stomach skin, then boiled. Precisely what you want to snack on, in other words, while passing through a tunnel at half past two in the morning. The entire feast could be washed down with a Ginger Laddie. Don’t ask.

Thirty-five years ago, I had taken the same line, in the opposite direction. A very different experience: no neeps, no Wi-Fi, no bed. The service was then known as the Night Rider, and the ride would not have disgraced a rodeo. A bunch of us, all students, huddled and shifted in seats that felt as laid-back as lampposts. Daring sallies were launched to the onboard bar. We grabbed, on average, fourteen winks, and, at journey’s end, staggered forth into a Scottish dawn so bleak that it froze the bones.

You can still buy plain seats on the Caledonian Sleeper, and they cost a fraction of the single or double rooms. The economics of night trains, in Europe and elsewhere, rest on two basic theorems. First, the closer you adhere to the perpendicular, the less you pay. An upright vigil in the corridor, during which you stare into the darkness and contemplate the infinite, is dirt cheap. Second, once you do lie flat, communal flatness is better value than solitude. The standard compromise is the couchette, a compartment fitted with four or six bunks: fun for a family, and rousingly unpredictable when you get tossed into a stew of strangers. Urban legends abound. Hands are said to reach up from the bunk beneath you, in response to your telltale snores, and deftly extract your wallet. And I once heard of a roving youth who, ensconced with newfound companions in a friendly couchette, was offered a cup of coffee in southern Bulgaria and woke up, two days later, in a quiet siding outside Thessaloniki, devoid of every possession except his boxer shorts. You just don’t get that level of service on a plane.

Not that high-end sleepers are devoid of risk. Habitués of the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, for example, which, in defiance of its name, can shuttle you from Paris to Istanbul, are encouraged to “trade stories with fellow travellers in the Bar Car as the pianist plays.” Imagine hearing the same anecdote, from the same retired fund manager, all the way across a continent. Should you book the Cabin Suite, “formed of two interconnecting Double Cabins,” you will be granted the unique opportunity for a blazing, champagne-fuelled argument with your beloved on the first night. Having slammed the connecting door, both of you can then sulk in ultimate luxury for five long days, and all for thirty-seven thousand dollars. Each.

There’s no disguising the itch that drives the Caledonian Sleeper. It wants to be a hotel. Such is the lofty ambition on which the principle of the sleeping car is based. The pioneer of that principle was George Pullman. Not since Monsieur Guillotin came up with a device for making decapitation more user-friendly has an individual been so closely associated with a product. Pullman, born in 1831, was an engineer whose idea of a challenge was to jack up whole buildings in the mud-bound streets of Chicago, allowing drainage systems to be installed underneath. A similar aversion to mess and inconvenience was one of the motives that spurred him to introduce the Pullman sleeping car, in 1859. Ladies and gentlemen, he reasoned, would pay to travel in comfort; the plusher the comfort, the more swiftly his clients might forget that they were travelling at all. On his much improved model, of 1865, the upholstered seats were indeed covered in plush, to accompany the brass fittings and the walnut walls.

As if to demonstrate that nothing, not even tragedy, could interrupt the national genius for entrepreneurship, the funeral train that carried the body of Abraham Lincoln from Washington to Springfield, Illinois, included a Pullman car on the final leg of its journey. By then, the train, which had crossed seven states, had become a story unto itself. The market followed the mourning, and, in 1867, the Pullman Palace Car Company was founded. The wealthy, and the aspiring middle classes, were offered the chance to sleep in peace, on the move, much as their national hero had been borne to his eternal rest. The deal would be sealed when his eldest son, Robert Todd Lincoln, was made president of Pullman, in 1897, and then, in 1911, chairman of the board.

The gradual upgrading of Pullman cars can be read as a fever chart of consumers’ wants. In 1887, a vestibule was inaugurated which allowed smooth access from one carriage to another and led to such delights as the drawing room and the smoking room, aromatic with domesticity. Women travellers, growing in number, were provided with dressing rooms. Air-conditioning began to flow in 1929, and the nineteen-thirties saw the début of the Duplex and the Roomette—not a word that I could nerve myself to utter in front of a booking clerk, but, qua period detail, it has the right snap and click. In “Night Trains,” a lovingly erudite book of 2017, Andrew Martin reports that Pullman cars were also “equipped with hairdressing salons, organs (for church services) and libraries.” When a train can meet every private and civic need, why would you ever get off?

Of particular note, throughout this process, was the deployment of the beds. In America, the custom was to place them lengthways, so that your body, when horizontal, slotted into the train like a bullet in the breach of a rifle. If you want to see this arrangement at work, its neatness crying out for comic disruption, I refer you to “Some Like It Hot,” in which Sweet Sue and her band, topped by a singer named Sugar (Marilyn Monroe), take the sleeper from Chicago to Florida. Arrayed on either side of the car’s central corridor are ranks of bunks, upper and lower, each of them guarded, demurely but uselessly, by curtains. A nocturnal party is thrown in bunk No. 7, with Manhattans mixed in a rubber hot-water bottle. You can keep your Orient Express.

In Europe, on the other hand, bunks on a night train have traditionally been set at ninety degrees to the direction of travel, like the teeth of a comb. (Of the many gulfs between the Old World and the New, this could be the most bewildering. Do American passengers, made of sterner purpose, prefer the thrustful sensation of being propelled?) A photograph from 1888 shows a private compartment, with two of the transverse bunks in place and primed for action. Every surface, including the floor and the mattresses, is sumptuously patterned and softened, as if to induce a languid hush. The name for such a haven was a “boudoir car,” and you can see why, for it breathes what one prim and titled Englishwoman scorned as “the atmosphere of vulgar depravity” that prevailed on trains de luxe. Her name, by the way, was Lady Chatterley.

To pick your way through the vestiges of the great European trains is a task not so much for historians of transport as for paleontologists. 

It is a lost world, in which Tsar Nicholas II could have a cow car, if you please, attached to his personal train on a visit to Germany, to keep the imperial children furnished with fresh milk. The landscape of this Trainaceous Era was crammed with rogues, chancers, visionaries, and tightfisted despots. Meet Colonel William d’Alton Mann, formerly of the Fifth Michigan Cavalry, who devised the boudoir car; King Boris of Bulgaria, who wore white overalls and stood next to the engine driver for hours on end, aflame with train lust; and Georges Nagelmackers, the indefatigable Belgian who founded La Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits (et des Grands Express Européens) at the age of twenty-seven. The trains running under that banner were majestic beasts, and some of the dominant predators are listed by Andrew Martin:

In 1883, after negotiations with eight governments, Nagelmackers began running the Orient Express, which groped its way from Paris to Constantinople. In 1886 came the Calais-Mediterranée Express, forerunner of the famous Blue Train. In 1887 came the Sud Express (Paris-Madrid-Lisbon), and in 1890 the Rome Express (Calais-Rome), which went via the Mont Cenis Tunnel connecting France and Italy.

That epoch, restlessly opulent, has long since faded to a close, but no matter. Blessed with a chronicler of consummate gifts, it survives and dazzles on the page:

One night, during a trip abroad, in the fall of 1903, I recall kneeling on my (flattish) pillow at the window of a sleeping car (probably on the long-extinct Mediterranean Train de Luxe, the one whose six cars had the lower part of their body painted in umber and the panels in cream) and seeing with an inexplicable pang, a handful of fabulous lights that beckoned to me from a distant hillside.

That is Vladimir Nabokov, in “Speak, Memory.” It couldn’t be anyone else. His family, in pre-revolutionary Russia, caught trains as he did butterflies, and fled to the Crimea by railroad when Lenin came to power; Nabokov claims to have worn spats and a derby on board, as if refusing to be traumatized out of his elegance. The hillside lights of his childhood return with especial brilliance in “Glory,” a novel too often overlooked. Its hero, Martin Edelweiss, spots a similar “necklace of lights,” we are told, from his vantage point on a night train, in southern France. On a whim, he gets off at the next station, with the train “exhaling a sigh,” and asks about the source of the illumination. Told that it is a village called Molignac, he walks up there, and spends a while toiling in the fields, before retracing his steps to the valley below and boarding the night express. He looks for his lights:

Here they came, far away, spilled jewels in the blackness, unbelievably lovely—“Tell me,” Martin asked the conductor, “Those lights there—that’s Molignac, isn’t it?” “What lights?” the man asked glancing at the window, but at this moment everything was shut out by the sudden rise of a dark bank. “In any case, it’s not Molignac,” said the conductor. “Molignac can’t be seen from the railroad.”

But why take a night train at all? 

Why not fly, drive, or apply to your nearest genie for a magic-carpet ride, preferably with a seat on the aisle? 

The best reason was supplied by my godfather, who was a military attaché in Moscow during the nineteen-eighties. If he wished to go to Leningrad by train, tickets would be issued to him only for travel at night. Daylight, which might have afforded a view of sensitive installations, was off limits.

Lesser mortals, with duller jobs, have three reasons to choose a sleeper train. 

1

The first of these is logistical. Say you work at the Stock Exchange in Milan. You have a meeting booked for Tuesday, September 8th, this year, in central Paris, at noon. (Because you are an optimist and a tough guy, and because you are currently hiding in your apartment, subsisting on macaroni from your pantry, and no longer able to take your shirts across town to be laundered by your ninety-year-old mother, you expect to remain virus-free.) You have a choice: air or rail? Air means an early start, with a taxi to Milan’s Linate Airport, and the 08:25 Alitalia flight on Tuesday morning. Eighty-five dollars in coach, but, hey, someone else is paying, and the idea of being divided from the proletariat by a nylon curtain still gives you a weird kick, so a business seat it is. Three hundred and fifty bucks.

To go by rail, by contrast, involves dining at home, then catching the ten-past-eleven on Monday night, from Milan’s central station. Again, your own space, with a sleeping compartment to yourself, will be expensive, at two hundred and seventy dollars. If you don’t mind sharing with another man, however, the price plummets to ninety-three dollars. A steal. Unfortunately, you do mind, since that other man, in your shuddering imagination, is sure to be a catarrhal insomniac with complex gastric issues and featherlight fingers. A stealer.

So, in terms of cost, the plane and the train match up. 

The same goes for arrival times: 09:50 at Orly Airport, or thirteen minutes earlier at the Gare de Lyon, not far from the Place de la Bastille. And there’s the rub. Most night trains insert you into the core of a city, whereas planes deposit you, at best, on the outer rind. A cab into Paris from Orly (or, more irritating still, from Charles de Gaulle Airport), at rush hour, is the antithesis of fun, and you may not fancy the schlep by public transport. Alight from the night train, though, and you will find le Tout-Paris, ready to greet you. Being in no hurry, you amble along the platform to breakfast in a restaurant so royally gilded, on the walls and ceilings, that the yolk of your poached egg will shine like the sun.

2

The second reason to travel by night train is flygskam. The word means “flight shame” in Swedish, and denotes the guilt that gnaws—or should rightfully gnaw—at your vitals when you realize that, by nipping from Berlin to Ibiza on EasyJet, say, for a skull-jolting weekend on the dance floor, you will, however indirectly, hasten the bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef. If you can spread the shame, forcing celebrities to charter their own yachts in a fit of conscience, so much the better. The vice of flying, thus exposed, has spawned a reciprocal virtue: tågskryt, or “train brag,” as practiced by those who not only swap the skies for the railroad but, having made the sacrifice, go on Instagram and tell their friends about it.

The science is solid. If our Milanese broker flies to Paris (a distance of around four hundred miles), he will—not personally, of course, unless he asked for a second helping of osso buco the night before—release one hundred kilograms of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. That’s not counting the taxi rides to Linate Airport at one end and from Orly at the other, probably in a fuming snarl of traffic. Should he go overnight by train, the journey will be more circuitous, and maybe thirty miles longer, but the CO2 output will be under four kilos. That’s quite a difference, and it’s genuinely hard to spot a downside, unless it’s the annoying halo of ethical self-satisfaction atop our traveller’s head.

Will flygskam have any lasting effect on commercial enterprise? The signs are (or were, before the advent of covid-19) distinctly promising.

A new Nightjet train from Vienna to Brussels, established by Austrian Federal Railways, or Ö.B.B., and lauded by its C.E.O., Andreas Matthä, as “an eco-friendly travel option to the E.U. capital,” had its inaugural run on January 19th. A serious journey, at just over fourteen hours. Ö.B.B. estimates that the rest of its night network has already saved the world twelve thousand short-haul flights a year: a delicious irony, given how greedily the budget airlines have eaten into train travel in recent decades. Further resurrections lie ahead, not least new sleeper services from Vienna and Munich to Amsterdam, slated for December of this year. One can but hope that such enviable schemes, intended to address the climate crisis, will not be stopped in their tracks by the rival plight through which we currently sweat.

3

The third reason to choose a sleeper train—and the most compelling—is no more practical than the taste of a peach. At stake, you might say, is a sense of latent adventure. Although it is unlikely, as you clatter through the night, that anything of note will befall you, the prospect that it could feels ever present, just out of sight beyond the next curve of the track. To remain awake to that possibility, even as we’re meant to be sleeping, is the privilege that beckons some of us back, year after year, to this awkward and beguiling locomotion.

No wonder trains and movies make such cozy bedfellows—so cozy that a train zipping through the darkness, with windows illuminated, actually looks like a strip of film. Plots, laid down on rails, dash ever onward; anticipation rises like steam. Consider Claudette Colbert, in “The Palm Beach Story,” who falls in with the rowdy millionaires of the Ale and Quail Club. Sweeping her up as a mascot, and boarding the 11:58 from Penn Station with a pack of hounds, they think nothing of firing their shotguns at crackers, tossed up by a bar steward like clay pigeons. As for Hitchcock’s “The Lady Vanishes,” the lady in question is a grandmotherly secret agent, who, before she disappears, daubs her name on the misted window of the dining car. A ridiculous method, in any other time and place, of leaving your mark; on a night train, though, it seems only right and proper.

If you don’t believe me, you have to believe Cary Grant. In “North by Northwest” (more Hitchcock), he boards the Twentieth Century, from New York to Chicago, without a ticket. By chance—or so he thinks—he meets Eva Marie Saint, first in the corridor and then in the dining car, where he orders a Gibson and, on her recommendation, the brook trout. The two of them return to her compartment, where, during a police inspection, she conceals Grant in the foldaway top bunk. Later, as daylight fails, they lean against the wall of the compartment and kiss, over and over, her hands caressing the back of his neck. “Beats flying, doesn’t it?” he says to her. Sure does.

Sleeping on a sleeper is easier said than done. 

In “I Know Where I’m Going!,” a magical film from 1945, the heroine, played by Wendy Hiller, caught the night train from Manchester to Glasgow, heading for her wedding in the Western Isles. And she definitely slept—lying in her compartment and dreaming of tartan-shrouded hills, as her bridal dress, hung on a rack, swayed with the motion of the train. But those dreams were bustling affairs, intercut with shots of pistons and wheels, and she arrived more panicked than refreshed. Thirty years later, in “Murder on the Orient Express,” the same actress became a veiled and tremulous grande dame, plunging a blade into the murderee before the train was halted by snow. It’s as if night trains, explicitly designed to aid slumber, implied too many other activities, beginning with love and death, to be truly soporific.

The ideal state, I would argue, is a delirious doze, peppered with fits and starts—the doze, for instance, of Anna Karenina, who gets a seat but no bed on her journey from Moscow to St. Petersburg. The snow outside is in tumult, but the compartment is heated by a stove: “She passed the paper-knife over the window pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek.” You can almost hear it hiss. Anna falls into a fevered reverie, from which she emerges only as the train pulls into a station. Such is the paradox that awaits the night-train novice: you sleep on the go, and you wake when you stop. (Anyone who has rocked a cradle will second this observation.) In the early pages of “Stamboul Train,” whose narrative puffs from Ostend to Constantinople, Graham Greene points out this peculiar hiccup in the laws of physics: “In the rushing reverberating express, noise was so regular that it was the equivalent of silence, movement was so continuous that after a while the mind accepted it as stillness.” Do the minds of sailors accommodate themselves, with equal ease, to a raging sea?

I first had a chance to test Greene’s thesis on a pre-university pilgrimage from London to Athens, by rail, with a halfway break at Salzburg. Thereafter lay terra incognita, for the Communist bloc was still intact. I was travelling solo, in a couchette of six; my fellow-coucheurs were smugglers, brazenly lugging bags of Western luxuries—lipstick, nylons, and coffee—across the frontier into what was then Yugoslavia. I assumed that they had bribed the conductor, who padded up and down the car in socks, and left us largely alone. The date must have been mid-May, 1981, for an assassin had just tried to kill the Pope: an event of such weight that the smugglers and I, who shared no common language, reënacted the crime en route. (Surprisingly, they had no gun among them, so I was shot by a lit cigarette.) Having commandeered the upper berth, I lay there, reading “Wuthering Heights,” drifting off, and lurching awake, bereft of my bearings, whenever the train paused. I recall tugging the edge of the blind, peering out into first light, and seeing an old woman, quite still, with a bundle of sticks on her back. It was as if we had taken a branch line into the world of Brueghel.

How long it was before the weary train crawled into Larissa station, in Athens, I don’t know. But the minutiae of those days and nights (insofar as I can tell them apart) are filed away forever in my brain. A journey by sleeper demands to be remembered, whereas an overnight flight is something you want to forget. Though the former may deposit you, benumbed, on a strange platform at a wretched hour, you somehow feel emboldened and ready to roll, whereas the latter leaves you curdled with misanthropy, watching everyone’s luggage but yours go round and round on a joyless carrousel. Red-eye is so much worse than gray-face.

Last month, I found myself in Lisbon. It was Monday, March 9th. The coronavirus, busy with northern Italy, had yet to turn its attention to Portugal, and the capital was still well peopled. On the Praça do Comércio, a handsome square that flanks the north shore of the Tagus River, cafés were doing a brisk trade, though the clamor dipped as I walked northeast, into the small streets that wind and climb through the Alfama district. With the descent of dusk, my senses woke up. This would be my last chance to meander before the borders closed, and everything was heightened and charged. I smelled the orange trees beside the cathedral before I saw them, and the vinho tinto I drank at dinner had a potency greater than anything recorded on its label. Besides, I had a train to catch, to Madrid, and the inevitable broken night ahead, so the urge to fill up was not to be resisted. Roasted blood sausage in green wine? Bring it on.

The stroll from the Alfama to Santa Apolónia railroad station takes you past a museum devoted to fado, that noble strain of Portuguese song which, more closely than any other musical form, approximates the human sob. To be honest, I was convinced, on arriving at the station, that the employees had just come back from a three-hour fado rehearsal down the road. Never have I seen a sorrier crew. Wandering to and fro like unburied souls in the underworld, they wore the saddest uniform known to man: gray suit, gray shirt, gray tie, and gray shoes. I half expected them to leave a trail of ash. My fellow-passengers were few; one of them, laden with plastic bags, claimed to have been burgled before leaving her rental apartment, and asked to borrow twenty euros. The first thing that greeted me, as I boarded, was not a smiling steward but the lavish tang of drains. It was one of those nights.

We pulled away, and, as I stood at the door of my carriage, in fond valediction, something occurred to me: the door was open. The platform slid by, quickening, a single step away. Maybe this was company practice, assigning responsibility to customers. If so, what else were we bidden to do? Toot the whistle? Make the beds? In case there were children aboard, I swung the door shut. With a heavy clang, it locked; the handle snapped upward and struck my middle finger. I was bleeding under my nail, swearing like a stoker, and we hadn’t even left the station. Who says that the romance of travel is dead?

The ensuing night had not a shred of glamour. No snowdrift brought the engine to a halt. No spies, to my knowledge, were spirited on or off the train. No unnamed strangers accosted me, entrusted me with vital papers, or proposed a dry Martini. The sole occupants of the refreshment car were three of the gray men, and their mood bore no relation to that of the Ale and Quail. At half past six in the morning, tiptoeing to the far end of my carriage, I found another door open. It revealed the interior of a compartment, and there, on the bottom bunk, lay the conductor, fully dressed, face down. For a second, I’m sorry to say, I was disappointed not to see the richly inlaid hilt of a dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades. In truth, he was not murdered but merely napping, presumably having wept himself to sleep.

Such was the non-event of the journey. Yet I relished every mile of it, pulling wide the curtains at the witching hour, as I brushed my teeth, to disclose a vacant platform and the sign “Caxarias–Fátima” in a glowing haze; leaving them open as I lay on the bed, thus admitting the searchlight of the full moon; and, at last, stepping out into a Madrid morning as fresh as rising dough. At nine o’clock, on the south side of the Prado, beside the Botanical Garden, three or four citizens walked their dogs in the crisp air. An hour later, I entered the museum, and spent my final stretch of liberty, more or less alone, in the company of Titian and Veronese. A few days afterward, the global lockdown began.

None of us, even those who evade contagion, will be left unmarked by the ordeal. Lives that hang fire are hard to tend. My guess, for what it’s worth, is that armchair travellers will manage better than most; railroad fanatics, their desktops thronged with timetables, are happy to plan elaborate itineraries that they know they may never pursue, across lands that they have no intention of visiting. I doubt whether I shall ever take the Andean Explorer, featuring “in-built oxygen for additional comfort at high altitudes,” from Cusco to Puno, and get woken up, at sunrise, for a bleary squint at Lake Titicaca.

I do mean to make for Sweden, though, once the viral fog has lifted, and to voyage from toe to top—from Malmö, in the south, up to Narvik, just over the Norwegian frontier, and well within the Arctic Circle. Or how about Belgrade to Bar, on the Montenegrin coast, rumored to be one of the most beautiful of overnight rides? Twenty-six dollars one way, plus seven for a couchette. Beauty comes cheap, and, in the lighter months, it will reveal itself with the dawning of the day.

A suggestion, then, for your compulsory hours of leisure: pick a landmass, get hold of a map, run your finger along the healed scars of the railroad lines, locate the stations, and start to plot. The necklace of lights is out there, somewhere, wrapped in the velvet of the dark. 

You may never find them; you may miss them entirely, glancing up too late from the window of your train; you may sleep through them, soothed by the loud lullaby of the wheels. But the hunt for the jewels is endless, and priceless, and the night, your co-conspirator, is here to help. ♦

Published in the print edition of the May 11, 2020 issue, with the headline “Because the Night.”

[creative-daydreams]

Memories

I. Nottingham.

The man at the too-crowded and too-hot post office frowns at the neatly filled in customs label that I have just handed to him. His eyes narrow slightly as they flick between it and the old woman standing uncomfortably closely behind me. I can feel her lemon-drop scented breath tickling the back of my neck, and I silently implore the man to hurry up. Finally, he throws me a bored glance, and drawls, “that everything?”

I nod, and dive into my too-full bag and habitually pull out my Australian debit card and try to use it in the card machine. Shit. The old woman tuts loudly from five centimetres behind me, before sighing in exasperation as I consequently drop the contents of the aforementioned overstuffed bag all over the floor.

“Oh FUCK - shit, sorry, didn’t mean to swear!” I garble, scooping up receipts and red lipstick and the ring that my mum gave me for my 21st birthday as the old woman glowers and the man at the desk raises his eyebrows. I then notice a small, neatly wrapped present has joined the crap spread across the floor. 

“Ah no, can I shove this in the package as well, actually?”

I think that the old woman may actually explode. Her face is rapidly turning the colour of the post boxes around us.

The envelope is reopened, then resealed, then resigned, before being stamped and thrown without even a semblance of delicacy into a large bag marked ‘International Post’.

“Might get there in time,” the man grunts, shoving a receipt with a tracking number on it across the counter and watching me being promptly shoved out of the way by my new elderly friend.

It is 5pm.

I leave the post office and wander down the hill it’s situated on. The clock on the council building chimes five times. I draw my scarf closer to my face and shove my hands in the pockets of my new-but-not-new yellow coat.

It’s snowing. The air has a bite to it, its cold grazing my cheeks and shortening my breath. It catches in my throat like the snow has sapped through to my very soul. It feels practically alien to me; its thin, sharp prongs couldn’t be more different than the warm, thick Australian air that I have left behind. The summer-infused Australian air. The ocean-scented Australian air. The Australian air that was all-too-recently perfumed with the clouds of his cigarette smoke and his warm-breathed laugh. 

I can’t help but wish that I was travelling the path that the parcel I have just posted will soon be taking - winging my way across Europe and the Middle East, flying across oceans, deserts, forests, and cities until reaching my favourite city of them all…

Two realisations slam into my brain at the same time, their truth at once dazing me and forcefully demanding my attention:

I miss the city.

I miss him.

Snowflakes drift down from the sky. Children in bobble hats and scarves scream and laugh as they dance around the Christmas markets. Couples, hand in hand, share mulled wine and mince pies. Students in ridiculous Santa outfits shout and stumble their way around the armies of shoppers brandishing huge carrier bags and pushchairs. 

I wander around a home that doesn’t feel like home anymore – not now. The crowds are jostling around me like the memories that are pressing themselves against my skull, filling my brain and shooting across my synapses.

Memories.

Lost in the memories.

Drowning in the memories.

Aching for the memories.

Memories.

II. Melbourne.

I remember the first time I met him. That’s a lie, actually; I don’t. The beginning is veiled by a mask of vodka; page one an indecipherable blur. I remember what I was wearing (aided, of course, by the photographs and snapchats of that evening). I remember the curls in my hair. I remember carefully applying red lipstick, and I remember drinking in my bedroom under my ceiling of fairy lights in the place of stars. What I distinctly don’t remember is seeing his face for the first time. I wasn’t aware that I would one day try to memorise this face that had, for now, been lost to the mists of alcohol and heartbreak. I wasn’t aware that I would meet him two more times after this forgotten meeting of streams before even remembering his name. I wasn’t aware that, three months later, he would be writing me a poem about this deleted scene whilst sitting under his fairy lights in a room that I would one day dub my favourite room. A room that came to contain a beginning that I never anticipated; its walls forever encasing the moment that two wandering stars collided. A room that encased the memories.

I remember the first time he kissed me. Alcohol spilling, cigarette smoke billowing, laughter echoing, words lingering… Lips colliding. Worlds colliding. Dreams being realised and hopes rising. Pieces falling into place - a place that they didn’t know they were meant to be in. This place, this pounding music and dim red lighting, is a place that I never expected to fall for him in. It is a place I never expected to even be in. It is a place I never expected him to kiss me in; but here his lips are, gently grazing mine and smudging my nervously-applied red lipstick. A behind-the-scenes kiss.  A secret moment in a crowded room that I will always remember. A memory.

Dancing, tumbling, kissing, whirling, talking, swirling-

I remember our first date. A Saturday date. A lunch date. The memories are flashing into the foreground in quick succession, like a slideshow or a stop motion film. The summer, bursting through the windows of the car and out of his eyes, filling my entire body with a thick, bright happiness. Me, watching him driving and smiling secretly to myself. Me, sliding into a seat in a cute corner café and wondering where he’s gone. Wondering why he’s taking a while. Wondering why he’s left me on my own. Wondering when he’s coming ba-. Oh. Oh my god. Him, handing me flowers to match the daisy around my neck with a smile so pure that it swirls up the darkest parts of my soul and paints them gold. Him, kissing my hand and smiling that same pure smile and sending me into some kind of happiness overload. Me, a single tear escaping down my face, putting my hands over my mouth and wondering if this is even real, if this kind of happiness can be real, if this boy in front of me can be real. It is a first date that feels like my last first date. A memory that lasts beyond the flowers.

I remember a magical midnight; the New Year’s Eve of midnights. The brink of a new beginning. His eyes were shifting like the embers of a fire - from hues of green, to hazel, to brown and back again, all the while casting my reflection in a golden chrome. I’m talking, laughing, twisting a lock of hair around my finger, listening, and then…whispering. Whispering secrets. Whispering feelings. Whispering who I think he is. This makes his eyes shoot from embers to flames to fireworks. They’re blazing with a fire of disbelief, yet flaming with certainty. It’s a look of great intensity, like oceans crashing against the rocks in a moment of chaotic triumph, or like that hug when you see someone you love after not seeing them for months. He whispers that nobody has ever said these things to him before. When he crashes his lips to mine, it is a kiss of intense longing and inevitability. It feels like the first kiss that signals something deeper than surface attraction. It feels like a moment that occurs in an hour outside of time that I want to remember for all of time. It feels like worlds and souls colliding. Exploding. Merging. Remembering.

 I remember sitting on Southbank with him at 4am. The city lights are dancing on the surface of the water, making it glimmer with shades of blue and pink and purple. We were dancing not long ago, but now we sit, hand in hand, heart to heart, and mind to mind. I start to believe. I believe that his laugh will forever echo off the surface of the Yarra river, mingling with the city lights and flying high with hope. I believe in a forever that began in a moment, and I believe in his hand encasing mine. I believe that this memory will last me a lifetime.

I remember an ordinary day. The last ordinary day. The last day. Kisses on my shoulder and secrets spilling over frozen coke and Justin Bieber blaring in the background. Laughter and a suitcase and Netflix and a passport and his hands in my hair and mine wiping away tears and… A strange sense of knowing that something was ending, right as something magical was really starting to begin. Ending, ending - not falling, but mending. Red bull kisses and forever pending. My future is changing and my timeline bending, but for now, time slips away. Five more hours, then just four, then three, two, one… 

I remember leaving. His hand, squeezing mine three times in a queue full of strangers and gently leading me forwards to hand my bag in - leading me into leaving him behind. His voice, pointing out my dimples when I finally crack a smile, and telling me he can’t forget me when the smile drops again. His eyes, holding mine when I can no longer hold his hand. They watch me, my own eyes misty with tears but shining with certainty, walking through the barrier. My feet, tracing the path away from him that they so desperately do not want to take - a path that begins at two metres apart, and ends up at ten thousand miles. Ten thousand miles of memories.  

 I remember drowning in memories at the airport. Traces of him like golden dust follow me from the check in, through security, and through the terminal. I slump over in a corner as the memories echo and bubble around me like living ghosts. They make their way into my diary, into my language, and into my soul. He makes his way into my soul; a piece of him accompanies me away from my favourite city and back to where I came from.

‘Back, back, it’s time to go back to you know where…’

Dancing, tumbling, kissing, whirling, talking, swirling-

Ghosts of summer. Ghosts of memory. Ghosts of you.

[siva3155]

300+ TOP SAP R/3 Architecture Interview Questions and Answers

SAP R/3 Architecture Interview Questions for freshers experienced :-

1. What guarantees the integration of all application modules? The R/3 basis system guarantees the integration of all application modules. The R/3 basis s/w provides the run time environment for the R/3 applications ensures optimal integration, defines a stable architectural frame for system enhancements, and contains the administration tools for the entire system. One of the main tasks of the basis system is to guarantee the portability of the complete system. 2. What are the central interfaces of the R/3 system? Presentation Interface. Database Interface. Operating system Interface. 3. Which interface controls what is shown on the p.c.? Presentation Interface. 4. Which interface converts SQL requirements in the SAP development system to those of the database? Database Interface. 5. What is SAP dispatcher? SAP dispatcher is the control agent that manages the resources for the R/3 applications. 6. What are the functions of dispatcher? Equal distribution of transaction load to the work processes. Management of buffer areas in main memory. Integration of the presentation levels. Organization of communication activities. 7. What is a work process? A work process is where individual dialog steps are actually processed and the work is done. Each work process handles one type of request. 8. Name various work processes of R/3 system? Dialog or Online (processes only one request at a time). Background (Started at a specific time) Update (primary or secondary) Enque (Lock mechanism). Spool (generated online or during back ground processing for printing). 9. Explain about the two services that are used to deal with communication. Message Service: Used by the application servers to exchange short internal messages, all system communications. Gateway Service: Enables communication between R/3 and external applications using CPI-C protocol. 10. Which work process triggers database changes? Update work process.

SAP R/3 Architecture Interview Questions 11. Define service (within R/3)? A service is a process or group of processes that perform a specific system function and often provide an application-programming interface for other processes to call. 12. What are the roll and page areas? Roll and page areas are SAP R/3 buffers used to store user contexts (process requests). The SAP dispatcher assigns process requests to work processes as they are queued in the roll and page areas. Paging area holds data from the application programs. Roll area holds data from previous dialog steps and data that characterize the user. 13. What are the different layers in R/3 system? Presentation Layer. Application Layer. Database Layer. 14. What are the phases of background processing? Job Scheduling. Job Processing. Job Overview. 15. What components of the R/e system initiate the start of background jobs at the specified time? The batch scheduler initiates the start of background job. The dispatcher then sends this request to an available background work process for processing. 16. Define Instance. An instance is an administrative unit in which components of an R/3 systems providing one or more services are grouped together. The services offered by an instance are started and stopped at random. All components are parameterized using a joint instance profile. A central R/3 system consists of a single instance in which all-necessary SAP services are offered. Each instance uses separate buffer areas. 17. From hardware perspective, every information system can be divided into three task areas Presentation, Application Logic and Data Storage. The R/3 Basis software is highly suitable for use in multi-level client/server architectures. 18. What are R/3 Basis configurations? A central system with centrally installed presentation software. Two-level client/server system with rolled out presentation software. Two-level client/server system. Presentation and Application run on the same computer. Three-level client/server system. Presentation, Application and database each run on separate computers. 19. What is a Service in SAP terminology? A service refers to something offered by a s/w component. 20. What is Server in SAP terminology? A component can consist of one process or a group and is then called the server for the respective service. 21. What is a client in SAP terminology? A S/W component that uses the service (offered by a s/w component) is called a Client. At the same time these clients may also be servers for other services. 22.What is a SAP system? The union of all s/w components that are assigned to the same databases is called as a SAP system. 23. What is the means of communications between R/3 and external applications? The means of communication between R/2,R/3 and external applications is via the CPI-C handler or SAP Gateway, using the CPI-C Protocol. 24. What is the protocol used by SAP Gateway process? The SAP Gateway process communicates with the clients based on the TCP/IP Protocol. 25. Expand CPI-C. Common Program Interface Communication. 26. What is a Spool request? Spool requests are generated during dialog or background processing and placed in the spool database with information about the printer and print format. The actual data is places in the Tem Se (Temporary Sequential objects). 27. What are different types of Log records? V1 and V2. V1 must be processed before V2. But, we can have more than one V2 logs. 28. What are the types of Update requests? An update request can be divided into one primary (V1) and several Secondary update components (V2). Time-critical operations are placed in V1 component and those whose timing is less critical are placed in V2 components. If a V1 update fails, V2 components will not be processed. 29. What is a Service in SAP terminology? A service refers to something offered by a s/w component. 30. Explain what is a transaction in SAP terminology. In SAP terminology, a transaction is series of logically connected dialog steps. 31. Explain how SAP GUI handles output screen for the user. The SAP front-end s/w can either run on the same computer or on different computers provided for that purpose. User terminal input is accepted by the SAP terminal program SAP GUI, converted to SAP proprietary format and sent to the SAP dispatcher. The dispatcher coordinates the information exchange between the SAP GUIs and the work processes. The dispatcher first places the processing request in request queues, which it then processes. The dispatcher dispatches the requests one after another, to the available work process. The actual processing takes place in the work process. When processing is complete, the result of a work process is returned via the dispatcher to the SAP GUI. The SAP GUI interprets the received data and generates the output screen for the user. SAP R/3 Architecture Interview Questions and Answers Pdf Download Read the full article

[trashpandaorigins]

Can i get a fic about the first time Groot and Rocket met on halfworld and how they escaped?

Yes you can @grootiez  hope you like!

This wasn’t a forest. Forests were growing and alive, green and earthen. But no matter how many times Groot tried to plant his vines they would not take. The didn’t take when he was locked in his concrete cell and they didn’t take when he was strapped to the wall of that odd room with the odd window with the odd people watching him. This was not Planet X, not his forest. There was no network of roots through which he could communicate. There was no softness of the material or mind. It took him several days to stop talking. Talking got him burned. These odd creatures did not understand him. 

“I am not going to hurt you, I promise. Just please tell me where I am.” 

“Yeah, I heard you the first thousand times!” Hot burning pain on his arm. Groot stopped answering the questions, then he stopped talking altogether. Here, wherever here was, he was not a protector of the wild things. He was not the wood-god. He was just another subject for these strange people to study. He heard voices of other creatures, crying, hissing, scraping. Their sadness and anger touched him, making boroughs in his heart. Over the course of several days, Groot noticed the creature in the cage next to him. A bird of some sort. It squawked for ten days and then one day it did not return on the gurney after the odd people took it out to experiment on it. On his other side, Groot made friends with an otter. 

“I am Groot?” She laughed thinly. 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying but you are sweet.” He reached his hand through the bars and tried to grow a flower for her. He tried, but whatever those people had done to him, made him too tired. He hung his head. Out of all the misery here, he wanted to provide some happiness. But they had taken even that away from him. The creature across from his cell made a lot of noise, anger like flames radiated from it but Groot did not meet it until his way back from yet another session held down pinned to the wall. They led him back with metal cuffs around his wrists. Down the hallway he walked, every step lagging. So tired, no sunlight for who knew how long. The lamps only did so much. Groot stopped, there was no snarling or biting from that cage across from him. Inside he saw the brown and black furry animal, leaned up against the wall of its cell, arm over its face. 

“I am Groot?” he tried to bend down as far as the metal around his neck would allow. 

“..too...bright....” the creature whispered. Groot positioned himself in front of the white overhead light, casting his massive shadow over the creature in its cage. Even when the guards threw him in his cell, he stuck his arm out between the tight bars and concentrated, growing branches, spindly as they were, to obscure the bright light. The creature did not thank him but closed its eyes and fell into a fitful sleep. 

Groot stopped counting the days. The carvings they made in him each time he was held violently against the wall in that room made him silent, stubborn. He longed for soil, cried unseen tears for fresh air. Most of all he missed his other Groots. Missed their interconnectedness. Missed connection. Today the thing he missed the most was water. He sat in the courtyard, staring at the ground. Wood dried, brittle, vines brown and withered. That was alright with him, as long as his heart did not become brown and withered. But water, he hadn’t had water in many days. His vision grew dark, he did not have the energy to long for anything but. 

“Hey,” he blinked. The brown and black creature from the cell across from him looked up. “Never got the chance to thank you....for the shade so, thanks.” Groot wanted to smile but his wooden face was too starved of hydration.  The creature cocked its head. “You seem like you could use a drink.” 

“I...am...G...Groot,” he breathed. The creature nodded. He could understand! That made Groot smile for the first time since he’d come here. He watched the creature scurry away across the yard to the large tower like structure and raise one clawed hand, gashing a hole in the metal. 

“Subject 89P13, warning.” The creature ignored it and slashed again. This time a torrent of water spilled downward, Groot watched as it waved across to him and sighed with relief soaking up through his roots. It was short lived, the creature’s shriek sounded as the thing was electrocuted from it’s collar and fell,, Groot sprang, reaching out his vines to catch the twitching creature. 

“I am Groot?”

“Y...yeah I’m fine...” it panted, trembling. “Say, want to get out of here?” Groot nodded, standing, he grew one of his vines now newly green and slipped it through the color, though it was so tight he could barely do so. Subject 89P13 hissed, trying to yank away at first before the thing snapped. 

“Th...thanks buddy.” It said, smiling gratefully before running off. 

“Subject 89P13 cease to go back to your cell or face termination.” The creature cursed, dodging the bullets from the guard towers. He grabbed a gun and Groot watched as he shot the guards. He wished he felt guilty, but he didn’t. Using his own vines he snapped his own collar. 

“Subject 89P15 cease, go back to your cell or face termination.” 

“I am Groot!” He glared, extending his arms outward and smashing through the guard towers. Shouts from the armed guards came as they poured into the court yard. The furry creature took them out while Groot lashed out any he missed. 

“Good! Now let’s go find a ship!” Groot watched more guards come. 

“I am Groot!” He shouted, spinning to take out another guard. 

“We don’t got time for that!” Subject 89P13 shouted, shooting and narrowly mssing Groot’s head. The flora colossus turned seeing three more armed people fall. 

“I am Groot!” He pleaded for the other creatures who were trapped. 

“We’ll come back!” 89P13 shouted over the gun fire, Groot straightened as he felt a small warm touch gently graze his leg. The furry creature looked up at him. “We’ll come back, I promise bud. But right now we have to get out of here. We have to...” Groot watched in horror as the creature’s eyes went wide and he stared at the red colored sap running out it’s side. Scooping him up, the large tree ran towards the landing strip, vaulting over the court yard walls.

“That one, there!” The creature pointed Groot made for the green colored ship. They boarded it and Groot gritted his wooden teeth against the bullets that bit his sides. In the cockpit he watched the creature hold his side and navigate the controls. 

“Ready to get outta here?”

“I am Groot!” He exclaimed. The ship took off, he held on as the creature fired at the facility. “I am Groot!”

“No I won’t hit them you idiot,” Groot watched the explosions below. When it was done he watched the last remains of the ruined laboratory. 

“I am Groot?”

“Yeah I’m sure, see that building still standing?” 89P13 pointed. “That’s where they kept us and the rest of the subje....rest of them. See? It's not damaged at all. Groot nodded, confirming. 

“Forgot to ask you,” the furry creature said, turning the ship away and up into the unknown sky. “What’s your name?”

“I am Groot!” Groot shouted with glee watching the planet grow small below them. If he had the strength he would’ve sprouted flowers.

“Ha! Could’ve guessed as much.” 

“i am Groot?” The furry animal thrust the ship upward further until they broke through Halfworld’s atmosphere and the stars expanded around them. Quite like spores Groot thought. 

“I...I dunno...I’ve never had a name.” The animal’s voice said softly. He punched the auto pilot button and began rummaging around the stolen ship, holding his side. Groot looked around, out the window and saw the rocket, firey and loud, propelling them off to freedom.

“I am Groot?” he suggested. The creature turned to him, smiling softly. 

“Yeah....Rocket....I like it.”

The End